


Beyond the Horizon

by Nicnac



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicnac/pseuds/Nicnac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Middle Earth, Gandalf finds his way to Britain, where he meets someone interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Horizon

Olorin, known as Mithrandir among the Elves, as Tharkun to the Dwarves, as Incanus in the South, but most commonly called Gandalf the White, formally the Grey, stood on the prow of the ship and willed his sight to see through the clinging mist. Many of the elves had claimed to see land ahead, but their eyes were keener than his own.  

Giving up on that particular tactic, Gandalf closed his eyes and searched for the land with his magic. The mist was saturated with magic that obscured his senses as much as the physical form of the mist had blocked his eyesight. Even so the isle, which would have been little more than a black smudge to his vision, blazed so brightly that he half-wondered that he hadn’t sensed its magic earlier.

Opening his eyes again, Gandalf turned around and went to gather his things. They would be arriving before the morning was out.

*             *             *

If anything Avalon, as he later learned the island was called, was even more magical than he first suspected. Those mortals who found their way here soon discovered that time held little meaning anymore, and the elves, who had never felt time had much meaning in the first place, didn’t seem to notice its passing at all. There was a certain vitality to the air that seemed to be absorbed by all that breathed it in. Gandalf could not remember the last thing that gave him as much joy as seeing Bilbo and Frodo, both once again full of life and youthful vigor, going out for one of their walks together, “to see where their feet lead them.” But at the same time, in contrast to the energy the air lent, or perhaps in compliment of it, there was also a certain feeling of comfort, a soft chair by the fireplace after a long day. There was a sense, that no matter where you had been or what you had done before, you had now found your way home.

That last feeling though was one Gandalf was only aware of through the accounts of others. To him Avalon felt more like the house of a dear friend. A place where, footsore and weary, he might be permitted to rest for a while, but not someplace he might stay. Oftentimes he found himself standing on one of the beaches, gazing out over the water and into the ever present mist. On those occasions small curling tendrils would float up the sand and the magic would whisper in his ears of things yet to happen and tasks left undone. Finally, on a morning much like all the others, he woke up knowing it was time to continue his journey. And so, with a smile and a promise to return someday if he could, he left.

*             *             *

After an indeterminate amount of time traveling through the mist, though he was sure it had been no shorter than a few moments and no longer than a few centuries, his boat landed against a rocky shore. Disembarking, he continued to wander on foot, not yet sure what it was he was looking for. As he made his way across the land he performed feats of magic great and small, ranging from revitalizing a wilted flower in exchange for a smile to a hefty sum of gold for disguising a king so that he might clandestinely meet with the woman he loved. After each of these tasks he slipped off to wander once again, leaving not even a name behind him.

Finally he came across a forest that he recognized from a half-remembered commune with the magic of Avalon. Here he would fashion a shelter for himself and settle in to wait.

*             *             *

Some years later he was walking in a field at the edge of his forest when he was quite literally ran into by a young boy.

“Sorry sir!” the sandy-haired boy exclaimed, panting heavily. “I didn’t see you there. I was running from- I was running.”

“It happens to the best of us. I’m sure I shall be pleased to meet you anyway, once you have had a chance to catch your breath and introduce yourself.”

“My name’s Wart, sir. Well really it’s Arthur, but everyone just calls me Wart.”

“I see. Well then, pleased to meet you Arthur,” the old wizard responded. And he was pleased. The boy might be a little meek, but, with enough training, he would do. “I myself had a great many names once, but I’m afraid that none of them quite seem to fit anymore.”

Arthur seemed to puzzle over this for a minute before asking, “But if none of your names fit anymore, then what am I to call you?”

The old man smiled. He had long since lost track of the number of people he had said the very same thing to, and yet this boy was the first to ask the obvious question. Perhaps he had some innate promise after all.

Casting about for an answer for Arthur’s question, the wizard spotted a bird flying overhead. Though it was not the same type of bird, something in the look of it, or the way it flew maybe, reminded him of an old friend who had, in another lifetime, saved him on multiple occasions. “You may call me after yonder bird.”

Arthur squinted over at the bird, before turning back and declaring, “That’s a merlin. Is that what you want me to call you then?”

Merlin smiled down at his soon-to-be student and the future king. “Yes, I do think that will suit me just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because you were all already thinking it.


End file.
